Linus was lying on the red beanbag, a packet of sour peach sweets perched on his tummy and his curls splayed out. Only a heap of Lego bricks lay scattered to his far side, the progress on a half-made F1 car no doubt stalled by the absence of a single, vital piece.

He was watching Doctor Who in English; all the children were fully bilingual with barely a trace of an accent, and Bell’s own Englishness had been one of the reasons they’d been so keen to employ her, even though she’d never nannied before. Hanna and Max had asked her to always converse with the children in English, even though she was fluent in Swedish herself; her grandmother had hailed from Gothenburg on the west coast and until the day she’d died, when Bell was twelve, had always insisted on addressing her in her native language.

‘Hey.’

He twisted to look back at her, his eyes seeming wider than ever in his upside-down position.

‘You ready? We should head off in a few minutes.’

‘Oh . . . I guess.’ He turned away again, and she saw the disappointment in the stiffness of his little body. He was a perfectionist and a worrier, always seeming to expect so much of himself.

She walked over to him and tried to perch as lightly as she could on the side of the beanbag, but it still rose up beneath him like a souffle. ‘It’s going to be okay, you know,’ she said, gently winding her index finger into one of his curls. ‘Forget about today; you’re one of the smartest boys in your class and Miss Olsson loves you. Going to your teacher’s evening is like . . . playing with puppies. A total feel-good session.’ Linus shot her a sceptical sideways look. ‘Your naughty little sister, on the other hand . . .’

That got his attention. ‘What did she do now?’ he asked, alert, not even having to ask which one.

‘Promise you won’t tell?’ With a five-year age gap between him and the girls, and the twins sharing such a tight bond, Bell often sensed he felt like a third wheel: too big and strong for some of their games, bored by others, and a boy to boot. She occasionally shared these little snippets to make a virtue of his age and bond them as the ‘grown-ups’.

‘I promise,’ he said eagerly.

She lowered her voice for conspiratorial effect. ‘Well, you know the chicks have hatched?’

He nodded. How could he forget? It was all anyone in his family had discussed at breakfast or tea for the past few weeks.

‘When I picked the girls up at lunchtime, I was taken to one side and informed that Elise had sneaked off with one in her pocket –’

His mouth opened in surprise, hovering between horror and hilarity until he knew the full extent of the chick’s fate.

‘– painted it green –’

It opened wider still.

‘– and sprinkled its feathers with glitter.’